


Even the Stars (They Burn)

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, But mostly angst, Case Fic, Dr. Trevelyan does not put up with Mycroft's shit and that is a good thing, Eating Disorders, First fights, M/M, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Therapy, greg is trying, sort of, vague discussions of past abusive relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9980993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Greg finally snaps at Sherlock. He and Mycroft have their first fight.





	1. Even If the Skies Get Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Titles are all from I Won't Give Up by Jason Mraz.  
> Sorry for the wait, but I've been wanting to writing this one for a while and I wanted to do it right. I'm not actually thrilled with how it came out, so I hope it's okay.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is tired, Sherlock is a dick, and words are said.

After a full two days without sleep, Greg started to wonder if Sherlock was prolonging the case on purpose. It was possible, likely even, that the thought was an irrational product of Greg’s delirious, sleep-deprived mind, but the fact that Sherlock was still bouncing around London, unaffected by the long hours and looking like Christmas had come early was a strong point in favor of the idea. The fact that John Watson was tagging along at his heels was another.

Greg had been a bit surprised when both men had shown up at the crime scene a few days ago, but John had explained that Mrs. Hudson was watching Rosie and that, in his words, “She’s my daughter and I love her to pieces, but sometimes I just need to get out of the house.” Greg hadn’t commented, just nodded and launched into what they had already determined about the dead boy.

Which, naturally, had been followed by Sherlock’s thorough and complex analysis that told him, and the rest of NSY, that the boy had been a victim of a trafficking ring, that he wasn’t supposed to have died, and that the accidental killers in question wouldn’t have left town yet. That had led to several chats with members of Sherlock’s homeless network, a series of incredibly long and fruitless stakeouts, and one brief chase across London before Sherlock had lost the scent.

Two days ago, Greg had called Mycroft to let him know he wasn’t sure when he’d be coming home. Today, Greg was so tired he was starting to forget his own name, much less the fact that he had a boyfriend.

“You okay, Greg?” John asked him as Greg skidded to a stop, panting with the exertion of running. It’d been a long while since he’d had to run so far for a case, and he was a bit more out of practice than he would have liked. Sherlock ignored both men, snarling in frustration as he paced in circles, the glowing streetlamps just barely outlining his figure in the darkness.

“I'm fine,” Greg responded between breaths. He straightened up as his breathing evened out and addressed Sherlock, “What happened?”

The consulting detective's irritation was palpable. “I don't know how I lost him. I must have miscalculated his knowledge of the local area.” He put his hands to his temples, eyes squeezed shut and muttering to himself.

Greg's phone pinged, and he fumbled it out of his pocket.

He’s heading in the direction of Westbourne Terrace. If you hurry, you can still catch him. – MH

“Oh thank God,” Greg groaned, drawing the attention of Sherlock and John. “Mycroft's got us a location,” he explained. “Westbourne Terrace. Come on.” He took off, his chest and legs complaining, with his friends on his heels.

Mycroft's information was, of course, solid, and less than ten minutes later, Sherlock tackled their suspect to the ground as Greg read him his rights. He was used to Sherlock nicking his cuffs (and his badges, and cigarettes) without him noticing, and at this point it was easier to let it go than to chastise him for it.

A pair of squad cars came roaring around the corner behind them, but the blood was still rushing loudly in Greg’s ears, so he barely heard the sirens. After the suspect had been herded into one of the police cars, Greg rubbed his eyes and said, “Well done, boys. You coming in tomorrow for the questioning?”

“Tomorrow?” John asked. He glanced at Sherlock, “Shouldn't he be questioned as soon as possible? Lives may be at stake.” The entirety of the trafficking case had been peppered with this sort of worry from John. Greg forgot, sometimes, that the doctor still had a heart.

“It's fine,” Sherlock brushed off John's concern. “They won’t risk moving until he returns, and I doubt they'll notice he's missing for a day or so. Besides, Lestrade looks dead on his feet. He'll be useless until he's passed out for a few hours.” Sherlock sounded almost like he was scoffing at the idea that people actually needed sleep.

Greg brushed it off. He was too tired to retort. “I'll see you at Scotland Yard tomorrow, bright and early,” he said, stumbling in the direction of the main road. He was contemplating hailing a cab when a black car sidled up next to him and stopped. Greg didn't question it; he opened the door and got in.

The lights were off when Greg entered the house, not that he expected any different with midnight fast approaching. He didn't turn any of them on, instead feeling his way slowly along the hall and up the stairs. Between the dim light from the moon and his growing familiarity with the house, he managed to make it to the bedroom without tripping over anything. There too, the light was off, and Greg didn't bother to do more than drop his clothes on the floor and yank on his pajamas before collapsing on the bed.

Mycroft shifted and murmured, “Your clothes are going to wrinkle.”

“Don’ care,” Greg grumbled into the pillow. “Too tired.”

There was a rustling, and Greg felt the mattress dip, before Mycroft settled against him, pressing a kiss to his hairline and saying, “Sleep, my darling. We'll talk in the morning.”

Greg barely heard the end of the sentence before he was out cold.

Not nearly enough hours later, Greg was dragged back into the world of the waking by the screeching alarm clock. He groaned, his arm flopping out from under the blanket and feeling around for it, but he didn't make contact with anything besides the base of the lamp. He grudgingly pulled himself upright just in time for Mycroft to reach over to the bedside table on his side of the bed and shut it off. Six in the morning. God, Greg hated his job sometimes.

Mycroft, damn early bird that he was, smiled and murmured, “Good morning, Gregory. Did you sleep well?”

Greg groaned again and collapsed back against the pillows. Mycroft chuckled, “I know, darling, I know. But after you wrap up this case, then you can come home and sleep all weekend. Would you like that?”

Greg grunted out an affirmative, his eyes still squeezed tightly closed. After a minute, he said, “Under any other circumstances, I would be upset with you for interfering in my work. We have a deal; you don't solve my cases, you don't even look at them unless I ask you for help.”

“But?”

“But I'm so bloody tired I don't even care,” Greg allowed. “Let's just not make a habit of it, okay?”

“I hardly did anything,” Mycroft said.

“No, you were just watching me through CCTV,” Greg said. “You tracked us, and the suspect, and assisted in apprehending him. And then you sent me a bloody car with me asking. One of these days, I'm going to be kidnapped, and it’s because I'm going to be too stupid to ask whose random black sedan I'm getting into.”

“Not stupid,” Mycroft disagreed, smirking. “Just well-trained.”

Greg sat up and stretched. “Nice to know that the kidnapping is likely enough that you won’t deny it.”

“You knew what you were getting into,” Mycroft said simply. “We both have dangerous jobs, and I will not pretend otherwise. However, rest assured that if anything were ever to happen to you, I would move heaven and earth to return you to my side.”

“That is…way too sweet for me to deal with first thing in the morning,” Greg smiled, and Mycroft allowed himself to be pulled into Greg’s kiss.

When they separated, the younger man nudged his boyfriend towards the edge of the bed. “Go take a shower. You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry, and the sooner you solve this case, the sooner you can come home to me.”

Greg gave in and stood up. He paused in the doorway, and looked back at Mycroft. “You want to solve it for me? Then I wouldn’t have to leave the house.”

Mycroft laughed, and shooed him out the door without responding. Greg grinned and obeyed.

Sherlock was pacing outside New Scotland Yard when Greg arrived, making a big, sweeping path on the sidewalk as pedestrians gave him a wide berth. John was waiting much more patiently off to the side, and he noticed Greg first. “Hey, Greg,” he greeted the policeman. “Sherlock didn’t want to go in until you got here.”

“I prefer my thinking unclouded by the morons you work with. The longer I could avoid the moment of contact, the better,” Sherlock said by way of greeting.

“Well,” Greg said as he pulled open the door and gestured them inside, “you don’t have to come in.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg as he passed, but he refrained from making any more snarky comments.

The man they’d caught last night was in one of the interrogation rooms. He was fidgeting nervously, and every few seconds he glanced towards the door. “Jumpy fellow, isn’t he?” John commented as they observed him through the two-way mirror.

One of his fellow officers handed Greg the case file, which Sherlock promptly reached to pluck from his hands. Greg held it away from him and raised an eyebrow. “Not in the mood, Sherlock,” he said. “I haven’t had anywhere near enough sleep to deal with you being childish.”

Sherlock looked reasonably chastened, although he mumbled something haughty under his breath before he said, “May I please take a look?” He glanced over at John, who gave an approving nod.

Greg didn’t particularly care what Sherlock’s motivations were, so long as he was playing nice. He let Sherlock have the folder, and the detective skimmed through it, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Occasionally, his gaze flicked between the file and the suspect, until he finally snapped the folder shut and said, “He’s not one of the higher-ups, but he’ll do. He knows enough to lead us to the ringleaders.”

Greg didn’t challenge the knowledge, because he knew Sherlock would just come back with a snappy retort. Instead, he sighed and steeled himself, and then pushed open the door to the interrogation room. He kept his walk light and confident, spun the free chair around and straddled it backwards, and gave the shaky man a hard smile.

It took less than two minutes to get the location they needed.

London had a lot of hidey-holes; abandoned buildings, back alleyways, places where unsavory people could do unsavory things without being noticed. It said a lot about Sherlock that he instantly knew the location the suspect was referring to, but it was nothing Greg hadn’t heard before. He simply directed police forces to follow the consulting detective, who had disappeared into a cab with John when he’d gotten the location, and then followed his own advice. This particular bolt-hole happened to be a warehouse by the docks, which made sense given the nature of the case.

As the forces of Scotland Yard spread out to sweep the area, both for victims and the perpetrators, Greg stayed towards the back of the team. Officially speaking, human trafficking wasn’t his division, although the murder meant the line was a bit blurred.

There was a call from one of the other officers as a huddled group of young boys and girls was discovered, which was followed by another shout as a handful of figures made a break for the exit. One made to dart past Greg, who blocked his path with a firm shove of his shoulder, taking him to the ground. The trafficker swore viciously at him and thrashed, his arm scrabbling under him, and before Greg could move to pin him, he drew a gun and fired wildly.

The first shot went wide, but the second whistled past Greg’s head, so close that he felt the heat brush his cheek. Adrenaline kicked in, and Greg managed to get a good smash to the man’s knuckles, forcing him to drop the gun and finally allowing Greg to flip the man over and press his face against the concrete floor of the warehouse, arms twisted unpleasantly behind his back. The man swore at Greg again, and fought his grip, but he had no leverage. Greg handcuffed him, and a fellow officer helped Greg haul him to his feet. The scuffles that had broken out were already over and ambulances were arriving on the scene.

Greg’s head still felt like it was going a million kilometers an hour. The buzz from the adrenaline was only just beginning to wear off as one of the medical personnel insisted on checking him out. After the most rudimentary procedure, making sure he hadn’t been stabbed or shot (he hadn’t, although there would be some painful bruises in a day or so), he waved them off and insisted they go help someone else.

He’d lost sight of Sherlock and John in the chaos, but in the aftermath they reappeared. Sherlock had a nasty looking gash on his cheek that was bleeding profusely, and John was hovering like the concerned doctor he was as someone patched the detective up. Greg walked over to them.

“Alright, then?” he asked. Sherlock shot him a dirty look, and shrugged off the further attentions of the EMT, who looked to John for confirmation. The doctor waved her off, and she retreated.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock retorted. His voice took on the tiniest hint of grudging respect when he added, “Good work. I do believe most of the credit is yours, this time.”

Greg smirked at him. “Well. You helped.” He gestured towards Sherlock’s face, “Better hope that doesn’t scar. Might ruin your boyish good looks.”

“I have it on good authority that scars can be _very_ sexy,” Sherlock made intense eye contact with John, leaving Greg with no doubts on whose authority he was referencing.

He cleared his throat, and John and Sherlock broke away from each other’s gaze. John had the decency to blush, but Sherlock looked completely unapologetic, a clear challenge in his face as he stared down Greg. The policeman returned it with a look of his own, one he’d used on Mycroft a handful of times with relative success, and said, “Right. Think we got all of them?”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Sherlock said. “There’s always more where they came from. But we certainly made a dent in their forces.” His voice trailed off and he frowned over Greg’s shoulder. “What is he doing here?”

Greg turned, following his gaze, and frowning himself when he saw Mycroft, who was standing in front of one of his black cars. He was watching the trio of men. Greg stalked over to him, and without looking he could tell he was being flanked by Sherlock and John. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, perhaps a touch more harshly than he’d intended. It wasn’t that he was upset with Mycroft, per se. He was just running on too little sleep and they’d _just_ had this conversation.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered to his brother, then John, before they landed back on Greg and he said, with all the smooth charm of his work persona, “It’s hardly the first one of your crime scenes I’ve attended. I heard Doctor Watson was back in play.” He inclined his head towards the man in question, “Hello again, John.”

“You didn’t need to come all this way for that,” Greg pointed out, crossing his arms. “You sure that’s why you’re here?”

To his credit, Mycroft allowed his façade to drop just slightly, and he admitted, “I heard about the gunshots. I was…concerned.”

“What happened to ‘we both have dangerous jobs’?” Greg asked. “I’m fine, honestly. You can’t come rushing to my side every time you think I might get hurt.” Beside him, Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed as he scrutinized his brother, scanning his reactions. John was watching the exchange like it was a tennis match.

Mycroft studied the ground. Slowly, he said, “I am…sorry. This was your first major case since we’ve been a couple, and I may have gone a bit…overboard.” He glanced at John again, then Sherlock, looking uneasy at displaying any sort of emotion in front of them. Greg could see the clear struggle in his face before he murmured, “It will not happen again.”

“I’m not angry, love.” Mycroft tensed at the pet name, and Greg realized he’d never used it in anyone else’s presence before. He pushed on, “but I do need you to trust me to take care of myself.”

John had been tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve, trying to nudge the detective away from what was clearly an intimate conversation, but Sherlock ignored him. He also chose that moment to interject. “Yes, Mycroft. No one likes a helicopter parent, hovering over their shoulder all the time.”

The moment between the couple was broken, and Greg snapped at Sherlock, “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“It’s alright, Gregory,” Mycroft smiled at his brother, but there was a razor sharp edge to it. “It’s nice to know Sherlock doesn’t intend to walk on eggshells around me anymore. It was getting rather boring.”

“Ah yes,” John sighed, exasperated. “We’re back to good, old-fashioned sibling rivalry. Terrific.”

“Mummy wants to know when you’re going to get her and Father into Sherrinford,” Sherlock said. “It’s annoying, all the texts and phone calls.”

“If Mummy wanted to know so badly, she could phone me,” Mycroft didn’t let the tight smile slip, although Greg could tell from the look in his eyes and the way his hand tightened on the umbrella almost imperceptibly that his boyfriend was not okay. The wounds his mother had left during her last conversation with Mycroft had yet to heal properly, and he was taking it hard.

“Sherlock, why don’t you go,” Greg suggested, trying to salvage the conversation. “We don’t need you here anymore, and you can go back to Rosie or whatever it is that’s waiting for you at home.”

John looked like he was about to agree with Greg, but Sherlock, as usual, ignored his partner and the policeman. “It must be nice, having a big, strong boyfriend to defend you. I’m sure Mummy will love it when she finds out you’ve followed in her footsteps. Is it nice, playing housewife? I imagine it must be dull, but then again you’re not having sex, so that could be the source of tension.”

“Oi, uncalled for,” Greg interjected.

“Maybe you should stop worrying about me and start worrying about your own coping mechanism, brother mine,” Mycroft bit back at Sherlock. “It isn’t healthy, displacing your irritation at Mummy onto me.”

“Who says I’m displacing it? Isn’t it your fault?”

“It’s always my fault, according to you.”

“Good, we’re on the same page, then.”

“And, we’re done.” Greg stepped between Sherlock and Mycroft, as the former had been edging forward with each sharp word. He put a firm hand on Sherlock’s chest and shoved lightly, forcing him to back up. “ _Go home_. Now.”

Sherlock took a few steps back, and as he retreated, Greg opened the car door for Mycroft. In a low voice, he murmured, “We both have work to do. I’ll see you later, alright?”

“Of course,” Mycroft responded. Greg gave him a soft peck on the cheek, because he figured a kiss full on the lips in public would have made Mycroft more uncomfortable than he already was. Greg could see that he was struggling to hold it together, and he made a note to text Anthea to keep an eye on him until Greg got off of work.

Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn’t made it more than a few meters away before he turned, noticing the kiss, and called back, “Why don’t you go make him a cake like a good housewife. Assuming you don’t eat it all before he gets home.”

Mycroft caught the expression on Greg’s face a split-second before he reacted. “Gregory, don’t-“

There might have been a tiny bit of adrenaline still thrumming through Greg’s system, because without stopping to think about it he whirled around and bridged the distance between him and Sherlock. His blood was boiling as he snapped, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sherlock blinked, clearly not expecting the force of the policeman’s reaction. This time, it was Mycroft tugging gently on Greg’s arm, “Let it go, Gregory.”

Greg shook off the grip, “No, I’m not going to let it go. I’ve let it go every other bloody time, Mycroft, every other time. You asked me not to say anything, and I respected that, but I can’t keep listening to this fucking prat talk about you like that.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, which might have been intimidating if Greg wasn’t only an inch shorter and a lot angrier.

“You heard me,” Greg didn’t bother to keep his voice down. They were far enough away from everyone else that he would have had to get a lot louder before anyone noticed. He shoved a finger in Sherlock’s face, “You’re a spoiled, ungrateful brat who’s used to everything being handled by someone else, but you can’t show the tiniest bit of respect for the people who’ve been there for you through all of your shit. You’re supposed to be a genius, but you don’t have a fucking clue what effect your words have, do you?”

Sherlock knocked his hand away, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Mycroft has an eating disorder.”

There was silence, a thick, uncomfortable silence, and Greg felt a pang of regret when he saw the devastated look on Mycroft’s face. Sherlock was frowning; he’d stopped blinking in that characteristic look of shock. John’s mouth was hanging open ever so slightly, glancing from person to person and waiting for someone else to make the first move. “I’m sorry, love,” Greg addressed Mycroft quietly. “I know you didn’t want to tell anyone, but he’s never going to stop if he doesn’t know, and I can see how much it hurts you when he talks like that.”

Sherlock was slowly coming back online. He shook his head, sliding easily from shock into disbelief and scorn, “Mycroft doesn’t have…he can’t. I would have noticed.”

And just like that, the anger was back. “You would have noticed?” Greg scoffed, “Really? You don’t have a bloody clue, Sherlock. You know precisely shit about your brother’s personal life because you’re too busy buying into that stupid façade he puts on. It’s easier for you to gripe about Mycroft being an emotionless, controlling mastermind whose sole purpose in life is to make you miserable than to think that maybe, just maybe, he actually has feelings.”

“Hang on, Greg,” John tried to defend his partner, “I think you’re being a bit harsh.”

“Oh really?” Greg turned to John, who winced. “John, you’re a good mate, but you’re a bloody idiot sometimes, and you’ve been a dick to Mycroft from the start.”

“He kidnapped me!” John protested.

“And if it was anything like my experience, he made it crystal clear that all he wanted to do was look out for Sherlock,” Greg retorted. “Maybe his methods weren’t the best, but Sherlock’s been too busy hating his brother to accept help from him, and God knows he needs it. At what point, exactly, did Mycroft do something that told you he was anything other than a concerned older brother?”

“Um…”

“Exactly. I mean, ‘what goes around comes around’? Jesus Christ, what the hell was that supposed to mean? Mycroft locked up his sister, his own sister, to keep his family and the whole damn world safe from her, so he deserves to be locked up too? Is that what you were implying?”

“No!” John looked incredibly uncomfortable. Good.

“I’m not saying he hasn’t made mistakes,” Greg glanced at his boyfriend as he said it. Mycroft was stone-still and porcelain white. His grip on his umbrella was so tight Greg was afraid he might snap the handle in two. “But,” he continued, the fire still burning too hot for him to ignore, “You both have made plenty of mistakes too. For Christ’s sake, John, you’ve tried to kill Sherlock at least twice. You wife fucking shot him and you both forgave her with barely a fight! So why the hell is Mycroft the one who gets shit over and over again, from both of you?”

It was clear that John was squaring up, getting defensive, but for once Sherlock didn’t appear ready to fight. He looked hesitant, uncertain. “We have a history,” Sherlock said. “One you couldn’t possibly understand.”

“You feel like he abandoned you, right?” Greg relished the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face. “He went off to university and left you all alone. Did you never think, for even a second, that maybe there was a reason for that?”

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was very small, and Greg took a deep breath.

“All I’m saying,” he continued in a quieter, more even voice, “is that Mycroft has been through hell and back, and he puts on a brave face because he doesn’t want anyone to see how helpless he feels, especially not his little brother. He starves himself, and works far harder than any one man needs to, and sacrifices everything just so he can feel like he’s good enough. And you waltz around and make your awful diet comments and treat him like shit, and then you wonder why he’s so closed-off all the time.”

John looked about ready to retort, but he caught sight of Sherlock’s face and closed his mouth. Sherlock was staring at Mycroft, whose gaze was fixed firmly on the ground. After a minute where Sherlock fidgeted awkwardly, he asked, “Why?”

“What?” Greg frowned.

Sherlock shook his head, “I’m not asking you.”

Mycroft looked up. The pain in his eyes was like a dagger through Greg’s heart. He’d caused this. If he’d kept his mouth shut, Mycroft wouldn’t look close to tears. The elder Holmes brother took a breath, and his voice only shook a little bit when he said, “I don’t understand the question.”

“Please explain to me,” Sherlock said without a trace of his customary arrogance, “why you never said anything. If…if what Lestrade is saying is true, why did you never…”

“You were determined to loathe me, Sherlock. Ever since I went to university, ever since you believed I abandoned you, you wanted so very much to hate me. I just…made it easier for you.” Mycroft’s smile was tiny and self-deprecating. “It was all too easy to play the role of heartless antagonist. And it was what you wanted.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. The look in his eyes was caught somewhere between horror and grief. “No, I didn’t want that. I was stupid, I was a stupid kid, I never thought-“ His voice broke.

“You never thought that I might have something to hide,” Mycroft murmured. “Why would you? I’ve been keeping secrets my entire life, Sherlock. It’s one of the only things I’m good at.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Is it my fault?”

“Is what your fault?”

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture. “Why…why you left. Why you starve yourself.” He tripped over the words. “Did I do that?”

Mycroft shook his head, “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault, Sherlock.” He hesitated, glancing at Greg before admitting, “A lot of your behavior…didn’t help, but you did not cause it.”

There was a brief pause, and then Sherlock all but launched himself at his brother. Greg stepped back in surprise, and John’s eyebrows shot up; even with the intensity of the conversation, the Holmes brothers hugging was not something they expected to see, ever.

Mycroft brought his hands up around Sherlock’s shoulders as the younger man clung to him, whispering ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again into his suit jacket.  Over his head, Mycroft made eye contact with Greg, who got the sense that there was another conversation in his very near future.

Eventually, Sherlock straighten up and cleared his throat. He blinked several times, clearly trying to disguise the fact that he’d been crying. He nodded, “Well.”

Mycroft inclined his head, “Yes.”

And just like that, in the Holmes way, the world fell back on its axis and continued to turn. The brothers had a lengthy conversation with their eyes that Greg couldn’t hope to make sense of, and then Sherlock turned to John and said, “We’re going home.” John didn’t question it, just nodded and took off after Sherlock, who didn’t look back.

Greg watched them go, and then turned to Mycroft. His boyfriend had a peculiar look on his face, one Greg had never seen before. Greg hesitated, and then pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed Donovan’s number. The sound got Mycroft’s attention, and he watched Greg impassively as the policeman said, “Sally? Listen, I have to take the rest of the day off. Family emergency. I’ll be in tomorrow for paperwork and stuff, but right now I need…thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Greg hung up. Mycroft didn’t say anything, just quirked an eyebrow.

Greg gestured towards the black car, still idling as it waited for Mycroft, “Can we go home?”

“Work?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the nation can handle a few hours without you.”

“Today it can,” Mycroft allowed, but there was no hint of a smile on his face.

“Good.” Greg made for the car, and Mycroft followed him. They were silent all the way home. Greg kept waiting for Mycroft to speak first, turning possible responses over in his head, but the other man never so much as glanced away from the window.

They settled in the sitting room. Greg sat down on the sofa, and Mycroft fiddled with his sound system, setting it to some classic symphony that Greg couldn’t hope to recognize. He didn’t comment on the music choice.

Mycroft finally sat down pointedly on the other end of the sofa. Greg turned to face him, and rushed out, “I really am sorry, love. I lost my temper. I didn’t mean-“

“Gregory.” Greg fell silent instantly. Mycroft wasn’t looking at him.

The silence stretched between them, but Greg didn’t dare speak again. Finally, after what felt like hours, Mycroft said, “I trusted you with that information and I trusted that you would not tell anyone else. You betrayed that trust.”

Shame stabbed viciously into Greg’s chest, making a good job of shredding his heart. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

Mycroft flexed his fingers, crossing one leg over the other. Greg could almost see the younger man closing off, and he blurted out, “I don’t regret it.” His boyfriend looked at him. Mycroft’s mask was firmly in place, and it twisted at Greg’s insides. More quietly, he continued, “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I broke that promise, but Sherlock needed to know. Don’t pretend his comments about your weight don’t upset you, because I know they do, and they weren’t going to stop until someone gave him a clue. I don’t regret telling him. The only thing I regret is making you feel like you can’t trust me.”

“ _Clearly_ I can’t trust you.” Mycroft’s voice was icy.

Greg hung his head, telling himself firmly that he wasn’t going to cry. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Christ, Mycroft, I’d do anything for you, you have to know that. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Mycroft stood up abruptly, and Greg tensed. Without looking at him, Mycroft announced, “I’ll be in my home office. Don’t disturb me.” With that, he stalked from the room. The floor under his feet didn’t freeze in patches of ice, but it might as well have. Greg stared after him, the violin in the background hitting a shrill and mournful note, and then dropped his head into his hands.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he hissed to himself, but it was halfhearted at best. He sat there like that a long while, long after the symphony ended and drifted into something lighter, until he was sure he wasn’t going to burst into tears if he looked up. Then he stood up and wandered out of the room.

Greg drifted listlessly through the house. He tried to read a book from Mycroft’s extensive library. He tried to watch one of Mycroft’s many films. He even turned up the classical music loud enough to follow him on his path through the house, chasing him from room to room, but he couldn’t focus on anything but Mycroft, sitting in his office, presumably making phone calls and doing whatever it was the British Government did for work. Greg’s stomach churned uneasily at the thought. Save for one brief misunderstanding, they had never had a fight before. Mycroft had never cut contact with Greg like this, never closed off quite so much. It scared the shit out of him, and Greg berated himself for telling Sherlock. He had been telling the truth; he didn’t regret it. But he wasn’t sure it was worth losing Mycroft’s trust over.

In the middle of the afternoon, just for something to do, he made tea and toast, and brought it to Mycroft’s office. He paced outside the door, sure Mycroft could hear him but too nervous to knock, for several long minutes before the door was pulled open from the other side. Mycroft’s expression was coldly impersonal, “I thought I requested not to be disturbed.”

“I know,” Greg said. “I just thought you might like some tea, and I made toast, since I’m pretty sure you haven’t had lunch today.”

“I’m not hungry.” Mycroft didn’t actually slam the door in Greg’s face, but as he stood there, staring at the closed door with the tea tray in his hands, Greg almost wished Mycroft had. Rage was infinitely better than the clinical detachment Mycroft was radiating. Greg could almost feel it through the door, freezing his fingers and creeping into his chest until he felt numb. Rage Greg could deal with; it had been the centerpiece of most of his confrontations with Amelia. He didn’t know how to handle being shut out like this.

He brought the tea tray back downstairs and set it on the island in the kitchen. Then he wandered into the living room, cranked up the classical music until the clashing symbols hurt his ears and made his head throb, threw himself down on the couch, and closed his eyes.

He must have fallen asleep because sometime later, when he slipped back into wakefulness, the music had been turned down and he had an awful crick in his neck. Mycroft cleared his throat in the doorway, and Greg bolted into a sitting position, leaning towards his boyfriend hopefully. Mycroft’s expression, however, remained carefully neutral as he said, “I’m going out. I have my therapy appointment now.”

“Right,” Greg nodded. He hesitated, “So, I’ll see you when you get h…” He left the sentence unfinished, because Mycroft had already left the room. Greg heard the front door shut, and then a car pull away, and finally gave in to the ache that had been building in his chest. Like a dam breaking, the tears started flowing, and once he started crying, he found he couldn’t stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter one of two; next one will be the aftermath, and it's from Mycroft's point of view again. I'll put chapter two up tomorrow.


	2. Still Looking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft talks to his therapist, then Sherlock, then Gregory, and works it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys really liked chapter one! I'm not hugely thrilled with this chapter either, but hopefully you'll like it just as much.

Mycroft drummed his fingers anxiously against his thigh as he watched the house become smaller and smaller in the distance. He knew Anthea, who was sitting to his left, was shooting him worried glances every minute or so, but he refused to look at her. Anthea knew him better than almost anyone, and he knew that if he gave her the opportunity she would try to help. It would have been a nice gesture, but Mycroft was about to have to open up to Dr. Trevelyan, and he needed the remaining minutes between now and his appointment to get his brain in order.

All afternoon, even as he’d made phone calls and sent emails, directing from afar, he’d had Gregory echoing in the back of his mind. Sherlock’s look of horror surfaced once or twice, but Mycroft had successfully blocked out all thoughts of his younger brother. He was too busy being upset with Gregory. The betrayal dug deeper than he’d expected, a testament to just how much Mycroft had let the policeman in.

When the car stopped outside Dr. Trevelyan’s office, Anthea made to follow Mycroft out, but he waved her off. “I'll send for a car when I'm finished. No need to wait.”

“Sir?” Anthea said softly. Concern was written all over her face.

Mycroft refused to meet her eyes. “Just go. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded, and wordlessly shut the car door. Mycroft turned back to the building and sighed. He straightened his tie and readied himself for battle.

Dr. Trevelyan didn’t move to start the conversation when he seated himself in her office. She watched him, like she’d done every other time, without a word. After a few minutes, Mycroft licked his lips nervously and said, very softly, “Something happened today.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Oh?” Even without wanting to, Mycroft could easily ascertain from a brief glance in her direction that she was suppressing her pleasure at his starting the conversation without prompting, masking it with a face of professional indifference that would have fooled most patients. Also, one of her cats had been acting up, as she kept absentmindedly rubbing a scratch on her arm.

He nodded, making eye contact with the wall rather than her. “I mentioned, last week, that I have an eating disorder.”

“You did.”

“I also mentioned that it is something I do not speak to my family about, because I am not comfortable with them knowing.”

“Okay.”

Mycroft fidgeted for another minute, and then sighed and said, “Gregory told Sherlock about it today. I have made it very clear that I didn’t want my family to know, and he betrayed the trust that I put in him.”

Dr. Trevelyan pursed her lips, tapping her pen against her notepad. “That’s…a bit surprising,” she said, “given what you’ve told me about him. How did it happen?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft paused, thinking, and then continued, “Sherlock has made comments about my weight for as long as I can remember. He delights in ridiculing me for putting on a few pounds, and he is perpetually making snide remarks about me being on a diet.” He sighed, “Or, at least, he was. He was…irritable today, and when Sherlock gets agitated he likes to take it out on other targets. I happen to be a convenient one. He made a nasty remark about me in Gregory’s presence and Gregory…snapped. I was afraid he might punch Sherlock, but he only yelled at him a bit, and it came out.”

“Do you think he said it on purpose?” Dr. Trevelyan asked.

“Oh, he most certainly did,” Mycroft said darkly. “He specifically told me that he didn’t want to hear Sherlock talking about me like that because he knew it upset me. And afterwards, he kept apologizing for saying it, but he also said that he did not regret it.”

Dr. Trevelyan’s struggle to keep a neutral expression failed miserably, and a hint of disbelief slipped through when she said, “So let me get this straight. Greg defended you when your brother was a jerk because he didn’t want you to suffer, and then he apologized for it anyway. And you’re upset with him because of it.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, possibly in response to her words, but more likely in acknowledgement that he hadn’t eaten much of anything all day. _Good_ , the rough voice in the back of his mind hissed. _You certainly haven’t earned it today. You’re losing control, Mycroft._

Dr. Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I’m not saying what he did was okay,” she said. “He did break your trust, and that’s clearly very important to you. But Mycroft, you have to consider that this isn’t easy for him either. I’m sure he was just trying to help.”

Mycroft frowned and stared down at the hideous beige carpet. He didn’t want to think about Gregory having his best interests at heart. That was the worst kind of betrayal, the kind where they stabbed you in the back because they thought it was the right thing to do. Mycroft kept his secrets tightly guarded for a reason. The whole point of a secret was that no one was supposed to know.

“Mycroft?”

“How am I supposed to trust him again? How am I supposed to believe that I can tell him anything else, or that what I’ve already told him is safe, when I know he could easily tell someone else if he thought it was for my own good?” Mycroft asked stubbornly.

“Talk to him,” Dr. Trevelyan advised, and Mycroft was a bit taken aback by her tone. Rarely was the ‘isn’t it obvious’ voice directed back at him, and almost never by someone other than Sherlock. She leaned forward, “If he’s anywhere in the realm of a decent guy, then he’ll understand why you’re upset with him and he’ll be willing to talk it out. Make it clear to him that you appreciate him looking out for you, but that you don’t want him sharing anything else that you’ve told him without your consent.”

Mycroft clenched his jaw, but a snatch of classical music drifted through his mind, and he recalled the blaring sound system Gregory had fallen asleep to. Gregory hated classical music. There was no reason for him to turn it on, and certainly not at such a volume. The only reasonable explanation was that he was punishing himself, because Mycroft wouldn’t speak to him. It was an unsettling feeling, and it lodged itself in Mycroft’s chest. “I will…talk to him,” Mycroft finally agreed.

“And you’ll listen?” At Mycroft’s frown, she explained, “Many people go into conversations too concerned with what they want to say to listen to the other person’s point of view.”

There was an annoying twinge of guilt, because that had been exactly what Mycroft had done to Gregory earlier. He hadn’t really cared that his boyfriend apologized. He’d been too wrapped up in his own hurt to see that Gregory was hurting too. “I’ll listen,” he vowed.

“Good,” Dr. Trevelyan smiled. She glanced down at her notes. “I was wondering if you’d be comfortable sharing a bit more about the nature of your eating disorder. You’ve been very vague so far, and it’d really be helpful if I had some context.”

Mycroft winced. He jiggled his leg nervously before crossing them to stop the motion. All it did was make the drumming of his fingers worse. After a pregnant silence, Dr. Trevelyan asked, “You said Sherlock has been making fun of your weight since you were children. Is that when it started?”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head. His throat hurt, and the tightness in his stomach taunted him. It was difficult to get the words out when he said, “I was overweight then, and a bit conscious of what I ate, but not…the disorder did not manifest until later.”

“When?”

Mycroft swallowed with some difficulty, and then said, “University.”

Dr. Trevelyan's eyes flicked to her notes. “You mentioned an abusive boyfriend who drove you to it?”

“David,” Mycroft confirmed. “He made me feel unattractive, and my weight was a large part of it. In the beginning, starving myself was something I did for him, to try to lose weight.”

“What changed?”

Mycroft considered the question, “I did, I suppose. After I broke things off with David, I did not start eating again. At first, I continued to believe it was tied to my weight, but it became apparent, after a while, that it served a different purpose in my life.”

“And that was?”

“Control,” Mycroft said. “I lead a very...stressful life, and at any given moment there are a dozen things whose outcomes are beyond my control. After being under someone else’s thumb for so long, not having complete control over my life...it makes me incredibly anxious. Food is something that I can control.” He gave her a bitter smile, “But then, that’s fairly textbook.”

Dr. Trevelyan scribbled something down, but the paper was angled away from Mycroft so he couldn’t read it. When she stopped writing, she asked, “Have you ever received treatment for it?”

“Twice,” Mycroft inclined his head. “Neither time was successful.”

Dr. Trevelyan frowned, “And would you consider going back to treatment now?”

Mycroft shook his head, “I’m doing...well, fine is perhaps a bit of a stretch, but better than I have in years.” The nagging voice hissed, but Mycroft squashed it. “Gregory has been helping me through it.”

“That’s good. We talked a bit about your support system before. It’s not very large, is it?”

He didn’t bother to suppress his eye roll, “No, two people would not be considered a large group. We’ve established that I do not have friends.”

“This is just a suggestion,” Dr. Trevelyan said, “but maybe, now that Sherlock knows, you could reach out to him?”

Mycroft laughed, “My relationship with Sherlock is strained at best. We’re hardly the sort to sit down and talk about our feelings.”

“Maybe that should change,” Dr. Trevelyan suggested. “It doesn’t help to put all your eggs in one basket, Mycroft. It’s good that Greg is helping you, but what happens if you have a fight like this, or worse, break up? That’s more or less your entire safety net, gone.”

The thought put a shot of panic through Mycroft’s chest and his fingers tightened into fists without his consent. Even with tails of anger still lingering, imagining Gregory just...gone from his life forever made it difficult to breath, and it took several moments before he was able to dispel the anxious feeling enough to say, “I understand your point. It’s just difficult, given my history with Sherlock.”

“I never said it would be easy. But I think you might need it.”

“His partner loathes me,” Mycroft muttered. Louder, he said, “He was there, too, today. When Gregory told Sherlock about my eating disorder. John was there too.”

“John?”

“John Watson. He is Sherlock’s...well, everything, really. His partner in every conceivable way. He seems to harbor a particularly strong dislike for me.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Mycroft smirked, “I suppose it could have something to do with my tendency to be a bit overbearing when it comes to Sherlock. My brother does love to exaggerate my involvement in his life, and make me out to be the villain where it is convenient. Of course, it could just be that I’m remarkably unlikeable.”

Dr. Trevelyan pursed her lips, “Do you think John will change his mind about you, knowing what he does now?”

“I hold out no hope for the impossible,” Mycroft said. “Dr. Watson has a lot of reasons to hate me, and they all revolve around my brother. I very much doubt that will change.”

She nodded. After a beat, she asked, “You said he hates you. How do you feel about him?”

Mycroft considered the question. It was one he’d mulled over many times over the past five years, but even with everything John had done, the answer had not changed. “I have mixed feelings about John, but ultimately, he is loyal to my brother and will always come back to him. For better or for worse.”

“That’s...not much of a personal opinion.” Dr. Trevelyan pointed out.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Mycroft studied his hands. “I like John well enough. He’s a good man, and Gregory and Sherlock both like him, so he comes highly recommended. But there will always be a tension between us, and that is unfortunate.”

Dr. Trevelyan glanced at the clock, and looked almost apologetic when she said, “It looks like our time is about up.” She stood, and Mycroft with her, “Keep in mind what I said. Talk to Greg, and see about maybe opening up more to Sherlock.”

“I will certainly keep that in mind,” Mycroft nodded politely to her. “Next week, then?”

“See you then,” she smiled at him.

Mycroft was drawn up short by the fact that Anthea was not waiting for him, before he remembered that he’d ordered her not to. He pulled out his phone to call for a car, and was surprised when it came up with a string of texts.

Come to Baker Street, if convenient. – SH

John isn’t home. – SH

Please. – SH

It was the ‘please’ that really got Mycroft’s attention, and he recognized the texts for what they were; Sherlock was calling a truce. He wanted to talk.

Mycroft summoned his car, and then directed the driver to drop him at Baker Street. He debated texting Gregory, but he couldn't deny the trace of anger still smoldering in his chest. His boyfriend could sit in suspense a little while longer. They would talk when he got home.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't there to jab at him, which relieved Mycroft immensely. He took the stairs slowly, every step followed by a pause where he considered turning back, but Dr. Trevelyan's advice and Sherlock's sobbed apologies kept him moving forward. Sherlock was waiting in his chair, fingers steepled, staring blankly into space and not watching the entryway. Mycroft silently crossed the floor and settled across from him in John's chair. He leaned his umbrella against the armrest and crossed his legs, folded his hands neatly in his lap, and waited for Sherlock to resurface.

It took several minutes before Sherlock broke the silence, but when he did, his first words were, “Thank you.”

Mycroft frowned slightly, “Beg your pardon?”

Sherlock didn’t look at him, didn’t shift position at all. His gaze was somewhere in the direction of the carpet between them, but it was clear he wasn’t fully processing the visual. “I said thank you,” he repeated. “Do keep up.”

“I heard you,” Mycroft said. “I’m just...surprised.”

“I realized that Lestrade was correct. As annoying as it is to have an older brother watching me the way you do, everything you’ve done has been with my best interests at heart. So, thank you.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair, tucking his legs up and draping himself over the armrest. “I’m not going to tell Mummy. Your reaction and obvious hesitance to tell me made it clear that you don’t want anyone to know. I’ve sworn John to secrecy, naturally. So, without your say-so, this information will not leave the five of us.”

“Five?”

“You, John, Lestrade and I make four, and I assume your P.A. knows as well.”

Mycroft nodded. He shifted, uncrossing his legs and settling a little more into the chair. He wasn’t comfortable, exactly, but he was closer to it than he’d ever been in 221B Baker Street before. “Six, actually,” he finally corrected.

Sherlock frowned at the ceiling, “Who…?”

“My therapist.”

That had Sherlock sitting up and looking at Mycroft, surprise clear in his face, “You’re seeing a therapist?”

“Is it really that much of a surprise to you?” Mycroft asked.

“I just assumed you dealt with all of your problems by eatin-” Sherlock cut himself off and winced. “Sorry. Old habits. But yes, it is a surprise. You never indicated any interest in baring your soul to anyone, much less a professional.”

“I also never indicated any interest in finding a romantic partner to share my life with,” Mycroft pointed out, “and look where we are now.”

“You had a fight.” Sherlock looked away again, relaxing back in his chair.

It would have been pointless to ask how Sherlock knew, because the solution was obvious. “Yes,” he confirmed. “Our first major one. He shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’m glad he did,” Sherlock admitted. He smirked, “After your nagging about my bad habits, it’s nice to know you’re not as perfect as you claim.”

“I never claimed to be perfect, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed, “No, I suppose you didn’t. It was just subtext.” His eyes flicked over to Mycroft before they returned to the ceiling, “I won’t ask for your life story, Mycroft. But...if there is anything you ever need to discuss…”

Mycroft laughed, because otherwise the discomfort would have been too much for him to handle. “Are you getting sentimental on me, brother mine?”

Sherlock returned his crooked smile, “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“But you do have a question for me,” Mycroft said. He knew all of Sherlock's tells.

There was a pause, and then Sherlock said, “I believed you abandoned me when you left for university.”

“Yes.” Mycroft clenched his jaw, but kept any other sign of distress under wraps.

“Why...why did you end contact between us? I looked up to you for much of our childhood. It...broke my heart when you left me behind.”

Mycroft looked away. “You're clever, Sherlock. Surely you can deduce it.” He didn't want to discuss that, but he did owe Sherlock an explanation. The conflicting feelings warred inside his head.

Sherlock turned to look at him, returning to his original seated position. His expression was grave when he looked at Mycroft, who forced himself to meet his brother's gaze. “I was hoping you'd tell me,” Sherlock admitted, “because I've been giving it a great deal of thought this afternoon, and the conclusion I'm drawing...I would prefer to be wrong.”

“That must be an unusual feeling,” Mycroft avoided providing a solid answer.

“You did remain in contact much of your first year away,” Sherlock said softly. “You mostly spoke of your lessons, you were always trying to help me, teach me, but you also mentioned a few...friends.”

“Yes.”

“It confused me at the time,” Sherlock admitted. “You’d never had friends before, didn’t seem to want them. But...you didn’t just have friends, did you? There was someone else.”

“Stop beating around the bush, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “Tact has never been your strong suit.”

At Mycroft’s request, Sherlock dropped all pretenses of gentleness, “You had an abusive boyfriend.”

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Sherlock’s correct deduction without a word. He wasn’t sure he could speak. His throat had closed up. Sherlock continued, “You would have been with him for about three years, then, considering the duration of your radio silence. He’s why you didn’t date, and apparently why you don’t eat.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at Mycroft the way they did when he was concentrating, trying to extrapolate something while missing a few data points. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am aware that leaving an abusive relationship can be incredibly difficult,” Sherlock said. “Just look at how long Lestrade put up with his wife’s cheating, and that hardly counts. So, if you were with him for three years, what finally enabled you to leave him?”

Mycroft gave a wry smile, “Actually, I have you to thank for that.”

“Me?”

“You and your appalling drug habit. Do you remember that Christmas when you overdosed?”

“I don’t remember much of it, but I do remember that it happened.”

“When our parents told me you were in hospital, that’s when I left him. He gave me the choice of you or him, Sherlock, and I chose you.”

The look on Sherlock’s face betrayed surprise, and he swallowed and frowned, “You...chose me...over him?”

“I will always choose you,” Mycroft said sincerely. “I was frightened of him, and I loved him at the same time, but nothing will ever compare to how much I love you. You are my brother, Sherlock. You underestimate what that means to me.”

Sherlock looked vaguely uncomfortable, which he combatted by parroting Mycroft’s words back at him, “Are you getting sentimental on me, brother mine?”

Mycroft managed a laugh, “I believe that’s domesticity at work, Sherlock.”

“How dull.” But there was a quirk to Sherlock’s lips, and a fondness in his voice. Mycroft knew he was thinking of John and of his daughter.

Mycroft cleared his throat and asked, “Does...John hate me?”

“What?” Sherlock frowned, and then dismissed him, “Of course not. He dislikes you, to some degree, but he doesn’t hate you.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Mycroft said dryly.

“You’re the smart one, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “John’s an open book. Deducing how he feels about anything is about as difficult as reading a magazine article.”

“If you’re asking me to trust my deductions, then I would tell you that he does in fact hate me.”

Sherlock waved it off, “He’s warmed up to you considerably since he thought you sold me out to Moriarty.”

Hardly a ringing endorsement, but Mycroft let it slide. Sensing the conversation drawing to a close, he went to stand, when Sherlock said abruptly, “Does it ever bother you?”

Mycroft sank back into the chair. “Does what ever bother me?”

Sherlock made a hand gesture that encompassed more than his words could, although he tried anyway, “This. Settling down. Becoming _normal_.”

“We will never be _normal_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft said. He stood up, “Domesticated, perhaps, but never normal. Settling down, however…” He considered it, and then said, “No. There are rough patches, moments where I don’t believe I can do it properly, moments where I consider how much better Gregory could be off without me in his life, but at the end of the day, I would not trade it for anything in the world.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair, fingers coming back into their steepled position. He did not move as Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his arm and made to leave, but when Mycroft reached the door, Sherlock said, “Do make up with Lestrade. He won’t be any use to me if he’s sulking.”

Mycroft did not respond, but he understood that was as close as Sherlock would get to voicing his support for Mycroft’s continued relationship with the detective inspector. It invoked a kind of warmth in his chest that Mycroft hadn’t felt for his brother in a long time, not since Sherlock had been a wide-eyed child who’d looked up to Mycroft as a friend and teacher as much as a big brother.

His car was still waiting for him, and Mycroft slid into the backseat and asked the driver to take him home. He sent Anthea a brief text, apologizing for dismissing her. The one she sent back was more emoji than letters, which made him chuckle.

But as the house drew nearer, Mycroft’s stomach twisted itself into knots. When he got out of the car, he paused at the front door and braced himself. Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was that the classical music was still playing. Gregory had turned it up again in his absence, and the first movement of Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_ hung in the air and draped the house in its mournful dirge. Mycroft followed it to the source of the sound and turned it off, plunging the house into silence.

Most rooms were dark as Mycroft worked his way deeper into the house, searching for Gregory. That was how he almost missed his boyfriend, who was laying in Mycroft’s bedroom... _their_ bedroom in the dark. Mycroft switched on the light, his heart clenching painfully as he took in Gregory’s figure, curled up on Mycroft’s side of the bed and still in his work clothes. He sat down gently on the edge of the bed, marveling at how young Gregory’s face looked when it was lax with sleep. There was redness around his eyes that deeply upset Mycroft. Gregory, with all his strength and confidence, had been crying.

Mycroft smoothed his hand over his boyfriend’s shoulder and said softly, “Gregory.”

It took a moment, but then the policeman stirred, blinking his eyes open and pushing himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes, clearly not fully awake when he asked, “Mycroft?” Then the haze faded and he looked like he was considering lunging towards Mycroft, “You’re home. You came back.”

Mycroft slid his hand away. “Of course I came home,” he said softly. “That was never a question in my mind.”

“I thought you might not come back,” Gregory muttered. “You were late, and you didn’t call. You always call if you’re going to be late, or at least send me a text.”

Guilt burned in Mycroft’s gut. He laced his fingers together in his lap, acutely feeling the distance between him and Gregory but unsure if a touch would be welcome. Gregory initiated most of their touches, and he wasn’t moving. Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach out, so he ignored the urge to wrap his arms around his boyfriend. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I was angry. That’s not an excuse, but…”

When Mycroft trailed off, Gregory asked, “Where were you?”

“I went to see Sherlock,” Mycroft told him. “We talked about some things. He figured out about David.”

“Oh.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock is highly intelligent, and after this morning it was only a matter of time before he drew the correct conclusions.”

Gregory’s eyes widened and he launched into another string of apologies, much like he had earlier, “Mycroft, I’m so sorry, I really am-”

“Please stop apologizing,” Mycroft requested, and Gregory snapped his mouth shut. He looked uncertain. “I spoke to Dr. Trevelyan about what you did,” Mycroft continued. “She made some points that you were trying to make, but I wasn’t willing to listen to.”

“I really wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Gregory said softly. “I know it probably felt like it, and that’s why I’m sorry, but I didn’t want Sherlock to keep talking to you like that. It’s bothered me for a long time, and I was tired, and I just...I didn’t think.”

“I know.” Mycroft tried for a smile, but he was pretty sure it failed. He chose his words carefully, “It means a great deal to me that you’re willing to defend me, Gregory. I’m not saying I’m not still a bit angry at you, but I understand why you did it.” He took a deep breath, “I have a great deal of issues when it comes to control. When you told Sherlock, after I asked you not to, I felt like I was no longer in control, and that frightened me and I lashed out at you. I apologize for that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Gregory gave him a shaky smile. “I should have known better.”

“You really need to stop blaming yourself for everything,” Mycroft said. “Yes, you have a share of the blame, but so do I. Don’t try to shoulder it all yourself.”

Gregory looked like he was considering arguing, so Mycroft spoke before he could, “I want to trust you, Gregory. So from now on, I would appreciate it if you spoke to me before revealing private information to others, including Sherlock and especially if I’ve requested it be kept a secret. And I will try to be a more understanding and talk to you rather than shutting you out. Is that...acceptable?”

The relief in Gregory’s face released a breath Mycroft hadn’t been aware he was holding. “That’s more than acceptable,” Gregory smiled softly at him.

“Good.” Mycroft gave in to temptation, and settled his hand on top of Gregory’s. It was a light touch, but Gregory responded instantly, turning his hand so he could thread their fingers together and squeezing gently. He hesitated, and then kissed Mycroft’s knuckles, sending electricity up Mycroft’s arm just like it had the first time they’d touched. Mycroft wondered if touching Gregory would always feel like that.

He cleared his throat, flushing slightly. “I’m still angry with you,” he said, although there was no bite in his voice.

“Of course,” Gregory agreed good-naturedly.

Mycroft glanced down at their joined hands, then back up at his boyfriend’s face. “I haven’t eaten today,” he admitted quietly, although he was fairly certain Gregory had extrapolated that already.

“Do you want dinner?” Gregory asked.

“I could be persuaded,” Mycroft responded, quieting the voice in the back of his mind by squeezing Gregory’s hand a little tighter.

“Alright, love,” Gregory stood up, taking Mycroft with him. “Why don’t we go pick a place to get takeaway from?”

“You chose.” Control was important, but Mycroft was also emotionally exhausted, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle making decisions regarding food on his own.

“Alright,” Gregory agreed. He gave Mycroft another one of those soft smiles. “I’m going to turn in early tonight. I’m close to falling asleep on my feet.”

“It’s been a long day,” Mycroft murmured.

“Long _three_ days for me,” Gregory returned playfully. He didn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand, and that, more than anything else, convinced Mycroft that they would be fine.


End file.
